May 20, 1930
Adora stared out the window and watched as the sun rose like a great golden coin surfacing on the currents of the mighty Mississippi. Twelve hours ago she had boarded this bus in Asheville; it had just now reached the bridge that spanned the river into West Memphis, Arkansas. In the middle of the night, at a greasy little diner in Nowhere, Tennessee, she had purchased a pocket-size map, and her smudged pencil mark confirmed the dispiriting news: Adora Archer was less than one-quarter the distance to her ultimate goal.
She had slept little, despite the lulling rocking motion of the bus. Her mind was too filled with questions, her heart too agitated about the enormous risk she had taken. Had her parents gotten any sleep at all? She wondered.
The note she had left gave them precious little information—only that she had gone, that she was no longer a child and had to pursue her own dreams, her own destiny. That she would, at some point, find a telephone and let them know that she was all right. Please don't worry, she had added as an afterthought. I know what I'm doing.
They wouldn't come after her, of that much Adora was certain. Her father adhered to the "you've-made-your-bed-and-now-you'll-have-to-lie-in-it" school. Besides, he had his hands full with church. The controversy over the presence of the Bread Line People, as they had come to be called, had escalated to all-out war, with Alice Dorn leading the charge on behalf of the Haves to rid Downtown Presbyterian of the Have-Nots.
Everything had changed so quickly since the day she and Tish and Ellie and Mary Love had entrusted their dreams to each other and the blue bottle. In her mind, Adora marked that day as the last moment of their childhood. Within a week, Tish had found her father dead in the attic, a grisly suicide, and all of them had been thrust into adulthood almost overnight. Now Tish was living with her mother in that tiny cottage and helping her work for the very people they had once called friends. Enduring the scorn and ridicule of the church—or at least the Alice Dorn crowd—while Adora's own father kept silent and did nothing to stop it.
One good thing, at least, had come from Randolph Cameron's demise. Philip Dorn had finally show his true colors. Tish's place had been usurped by that mousy little creature Marcella, a girl Philip never would have looked at twice had her daddy not been a friend of the Vanderbilts and a very rich man.
A wave of shame crested over Adora, and she struggled to break the surface of her own self-reproach. She never should have attended Philip and Marcella's engagement party, not when she knew Tish would be in the kitchen with her mother. Tish was gracious about it, of course. She always was, these days. In fact, she was becoming increasingly like her mother—another blessing hidden behind the barbs of reality. Still, it had to hurt, seeing her best friend mingling with the Vanderbilts like royalty, while Tish herself, the erstwhile fiancée, was given no more respect than a day servant.
Adora sighed and shifted in the seat, leaning her head against the cool window She hadn't been a very good best friend to Letitia, if she was going to be brutally honest with herself. Until two days ago at graduation, and afterward, at the party at Tish's house, they had seen little of each other except in passing at school. For months Adora had simply accepted the changes as the inevitable outcome of the struggles that had assaulted all of them. But then on Sunday, at the graduation party, she had gotten a glimpse of the way it used to be. The four of them, together, laughing, as if the tragedies of the preceding months had never happened. As if it had all been a bad dream, scattered to oblivion by the morning light.
And now, just as things were beginning to get back to normal, she was leaving.
But she wouldn't let it end there. She couldn't. She had made a vow, a solemn promise, that she would uphold her friends and encourage them to fulfill their dreams. Adora wasn't sure quite how she could be true to that commitment; even now every bump in the road put more distance between her and the three friends she had vowed to support.
Prayer was the first idea that came to her mind, but she immediately dismissed it. She had experienced quite enough of religion—the Alice Dorns of the world defending their turf, the Pastor Archers abdicating responsibility by their silence. Adora had seen too much. And as the minister's daughter she had seen it much too closely The underside of Christianity didn't look nearly so appealing as its public face.
No, prayer wasn't an option. If the Almighty wanted to communicate with her, he'd have to give her more to go on than what she had seen so far. The Christ her father represented wasn't a god she was willing to serve.
She'd have to settle, Adora concluded, for holding Tish and the others consciously in mind, writing letters to them, keeping in touch. Letting them know what was going on in her search for stardom.
And no pretense, no acting. Complete honesty.
It was the least—and the most—she could do.
Miss Mcllwain's Hollywood House for Young Ladies didn't turn out to be quite what Adora expected. A looming brick mansion on a dead-end street, it hulked out of sight behind high shrubbery and a heavy iron gate, as if forbidding anyone to enter uninvited.
Caroline Mcllwain, the proprietress, incarnated the house's austerity in flesh and blood. The stereotypical missionary spinster, Miss Mcllwain had pale, pinched features, suspicious eyes, a bun at the nape of her neck, and an impassioned certainty about her calling—which, she told Adora in no uncertain terms, was to serve as guardian to protect the chastity and honor of "her girls" while they sought employment in the City of Sin.
Mother Mac, as the other residents called her, laid out the house rules for Adora: The gates were locked promptly at 10:30 P.M. All residents were to be in their own rooms with the lights out by eleven. There would be no drinking of alcoholic beverages or smoking, and absolutely no visitors of the male gender except in the front parlor on Sunday afternoons between two and four. Two meals per day were included: breakfast at six-thirty, supper at seven. No refunds were given for missed meals. No Victrolas in the rooms, and absolutely no dancing on the premises, except for young ladies studying classical ballet, who could use the sunroom off the back parlor for rehearsing.
Wonderful, Adora thought, just like home.
"You say your father is a minister?" Mother Mac asked as she led Adora up three flights of stairs to her room. She opened a door at the end of the hall and ushered Adora into a tiny cell furnished with a single bed, a dresser, and a small desk. A high dormer window looked out over the enclosed gardens. "How lovely. It's always a blessing when I get good Christian girls who know how to behave themselves. Sets a good example for the others, don't you know?"
"Don't I know," Adora muttered. She laid her suitcase on the bed. After four days on a bus, all she wanted to do was lie down beside it and sleep.
"You met Candace and Emily as you came in. Candace is right down the hall, and Emily is on the second floor. The rest of our little family you'll meet at dinner tonight. Seven sharp, remember?"
"I remember."
"Oh, and—Adora, is it?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Just what are your intentions here in Hollywood? Ballet, perhaps? Or opera?"
"Acting," Adora said. "I want to become an actress—in the talkies."
Miss Mcllwain's hand flew to her skinny neck. "Oh, my I had no idea."
"Is this a problem?"
"Well. . . usually I only take in girls who are studying the serious arts. Actresses tend to be—you know. Unmanageable. But since your father is a minister of the gospel, I suppose I could make an exception this one time." She peered into Adora's face. "He must be a very . . . liberal man of the cloth, to allow you to pursue acting."
"Indeed," Adora sighed. "Very liberal."
"And he must trust you a great deal."
"Implicitly"
"Ah. I see. Well, I suppose we need devoted Christians in all venues," she murmured. "Who's to second-guess the Lord about his calling?" She gave a tight-lipped smile and backed out of the room.
As soon as the door shut behind her, Adora kicked off her shoes, flung herself on the bed, and heaved a sigh of relief.
Never mind that she found herself—at least temporarily—a ward of Miss Caroline Mcllwain, self-professed guard dog of virtue. Never mind that her room was cramped and dark and smelled a little like mildewed shoes. Never mind that she was exhausted, hungry, and utterly alone. She had made it. She was here.
The City of Sin, Miss Mcllwain had called it.
Sin be hanged. This was Los Angeles. Hollywood.
The City of Angels, Adora thought.
The City of Dreams.
Adora awoke to find the room bathed in a blue glow. The sun had set, and a rising moon came through the curtains and cast an eerie light over the bare floorboards. What had awakened her? And what time was it?
A knock sounded on the door—again, Adora realized. It was the knocking that had roused her from a very deep sleep. Her suitcase lay beside her, open but still packed, and her legs were numb from hanging off the edge of the bed.
"Come in."
The door opened, and two female figures entered. One of them carried a tray, and the other reached over to the bedside table and snapped on the reading lamp. Adora blinked and tried to focus.
"You slept through supper." The first girl, a tall blonde with a lithe figure and very large breasts, set the tray on the foot of the bed.
"We told Mother Mac you were probably exhausted from your trip, so she made an exception and let us bring a tray up." The other, a tiny slip of a thing with bright red hair, smiled at her. They looked familiar, vaguely, but Adora couldn't place them.
"Thank you," she managed, rubbing at her eyes in an attempt to wake up. "I'm starving."
The tall blonde smiled. "I'm Candace—Candace Mannheim. We met downstairs when you arrived."
"And I'm Emily Blackstone."
Adora sat up and propped against the head of the bed and took the tray in her lap. Candace moved the suitcase to the floor, and both she and Emily sat on the foot of the bed.
"Adora Archer," Adora said, eyeing the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. "Do you mind?" She gestured with her fork.
"Of course not, go right ahead." Candace smiled and motioned for her to eat. "So, where are you from? And what are you in for?"
Adora frowned. "I'm from North Carolina. Asheville."
"Ha! A Cracker!" Emily burst out. "Or is it a Southern Belle?"
"Neither, actually," Adora hedged, not knowing whether they were making fun at her expense or simply didn't know the difference. "What did you mean, what am I in for?"
"Just a little prison humor among the inmates," Candace chuckled. "What brings you to Hollywood?"
"I want to be an actress."
"You and everyone else on the planet, honey." Emily shook her head. "I've been here for six months. Candy's been here almost a year. I've gotten two callbacks, but no jobs. Candy's been in two talkies, as extras, for base pay."
"Two films?" Adora stared at Candace. "But I thought Miss Mcllwain didn't take in actresses—that she made an exception for me because my dad is a—" Adora stopped suddenly. For some reason she couldn't articulate at the moment, she didn't want these two knowing she was a preacher's daughter.
But they didn't seem to notice her hesitation. "Let us tell you something, Addie—can we call you Addie? Every girl in this house—all nineteen of us, now twenty counting you—is pounding the sidewalks looking for work. This town is full of us—we meet ourselves coming and going. All alike, all wanting the same thing—to be a star. As for Mother Mac, as long as you carry around a pair of toe shoes and do aplié now and then on the back porch, she'll convince herself that you are a 'student of the serious arts' and leave you alone."
"What's your plan?" Emily asked.
"My plan?"
"You've got to have a plan. Do you—wait, I'm afraid to ask. Do you have any contacts? Any connections with a studio ?"
Adora felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her, and she pushed her dinner aside. "No, I didn't know—"
Candace patted the blanket. "It's okay. Stick with us, kid. We know the ropes, and we'll help you get on your feet. I hope you've got a little money to tide you over."
"A couple months' worth."
"That'll get you started. Em and I work three nights a week at a club on the west side. It's pretty dismal, but the tips are good, and they're looking for more part-time help. We can get you in—eight to midnight."
"But Miss Mcllwain said the gates are locked and we're supposed to be in our rooms by—"
Candace threw back her head and laughed. "You'll learn this eventually, so you might as well hear it right up front. For every rule, kid, there's a way around it. In this case, it's a hole in the hedge and a trellis on the back wall of the house. Just make sure to leave your window unlocked."
Adora nodded.
"Now, eat up and get some rest. There's a cattle call tomorrow morning at eight. We'll come get you and we can all go together."
Adora didn't like the way these two made her feel—stupid, naive, and just a little prudish. But if she didn't ask, she'd never learn. "A cattle call?"
"For bit parts, you know, extras in a movie. You don't have to have an agent or an appointment. You just show up, and if they like your looks, you might get a job." Emily studied Adora with a scrutinizing gaze. "Good facial structure, nice cheekbones. Lips are a little full, but we can correct that with a little cosmetic deception. You're lucky, kiddo. Blonde hair and blue eyes are popular these days." She fluffed at her wild red curls. "I can't tell you how many jobs I've lost because I stand out too much."
"Cattle call, huh? And just what does that make us?" Adora smiled. Maybe she had been wrong in her initial reaction to Candace and Emily. They were trying to help, after all, and they obviously knew a great deal more than she did about the way things were done in Hollywood.
After they left, she finished off her dinner, unpacked her suitcase, and got ready for bed. Tomorrow was the big day—her first audition. Maybe by this time tomorrow night she would be writing Letitia to tell her that Adora Archer was on her way to being a star.
Or if not a star, she mused wryly, at least a legitimately employed cow.